


God and His priests and His kings

by ElixirBB



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Little bit AU, Molly meets Jim when she's younger, Sex, Underage Sex, Violence, bit of blood, heed the tags, hopefully I've covered all the bases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:56:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElixirBB/pseuds/ElixirBB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper has been a constant in Jim Moriarty’s life for a long time. She thinks it’s probably the reason why he hates Sherlock Holmes so much. Molly/Jim, Sherlock/Molly. A little bit AU in that Molly and Jim meet when they’re young. Shit snowballs from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God and His priests and His kings

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the warnings. There be major triggers ahead. I’m serious. Like underage sex, emotional manipulation, sex in general, violence, blood type of triggers. I’ve tried to keep it neat and stuff but I mean, it’s dark and it’s angsty and I apologize in advance if this offends anyone. I love you guys. So so much. Also, I’m toying with the idea of putting this on FF but think it’ll probably be safer here. So yeah, enjoy my wonderful people!
> 
> Any mistakes are mine and mine alone. Title is taken from the song Cold by Aqualung and Lucy Schwartz. Basically, it was on a loop while writing this. So good.

A strange boy moves into the house next to hers when she’s ten years old. His parents are nice people, they smile and laugh and shake hands with her parents. They coo at her and say “well aren’t you just a pretty one. James will love you for sure.”

 

Molly Hooper doesn’t know who _James_ is and doesn’t think she particularly cares but she blushes anyways. She’s ushered through the house, past a maze of boxes and into the yard where an old willow tree is rooted. The yard is empty and barren. It looks like a wasteland, the type that her father reads aloud to her when she can’t sleep. The wind whistles around her, tossing her hair into her face. She pushes it aside with small hands and makes her way to the willow tree.

 

The willow tree is directly in front of her room. Every time she looks out her window, it’s all she can see.

 

“What do you want?” A voice snaps. Molly jumps and twirls around, eyes rapidly flying back and forth and unable to see anyone. “Up here, you _idiot_.”

 

She frowns, hands on her hips and tilts her head up. _There_. In the willow tree. There is a boy. He looks to be a couple years older than her with brown hair and brown eyes. She doesn’t say anything, instead, she just stares up at him, in wonderment, until he sighs and climbs down the tree. He climbs down effortlessly. “You called me an idiot.” She says when he stands in front of her and doesn’t say anything. He just studies her.

 

“It’s because you are. Everyone here is just so dull.” It’s the first time she actually listens to his voice. She can hear the Irish lilt and she vaguely thinks that she’s always liked Irish accents.

 

“It’s rude.” She tells him. For some reason her heart is pounding and her palms are starting to sweat.

 

The boy is staring at her with hard eyes and then he rolls them. “You can leave now. I can tell you’re going to be boring and I need someone who isn’t.”

 

She’d like to tell him that he’s all of _twelve_ and technically _everyone_ is boring at twelve but she doesn’t. Instead, Molly just stands underneath the willow tree and fidgets. There is something clawing at her, something that makes her sick to her stomach. She doesn’t want to leave the boy. Not really. He’s interesting, that’s for sure. He talks like he’s fifteen and acts like he’s much older and Molly knows (even at the age of ten, she’s always been such a smart little girl) that this boy will be a good person to have on her side. A good person to be friends with. (She also knows that he’s likely going to destroy her one day, she can just feel it.)

 

Molly doesn’t have any friends. She has Mary but Mary doesn’t burn quite as brightly as this boy.

 

“I could not be. Boring, I mean. I could be anyone you need me to be.”

 

Those are apparently the magic words because his face twists into a slight smirk and his eyes light up in a way that has little Molly Hooper trembling from head to toe.

 

(There is a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that tells her she just made a deal with the devil.)

* * *

His name is James Moriarty and he prefers to be called by his surname.

 

All adults call him James.

 

Mary doesn’t like him and refuses to call him anything.

 

(Molly is the _only_ one he lets call him _Jim_.)

* * *

As Molly gets older, Jim gets stranger. He becomes more unhinged. He talks about death a lot and he talks about committing the perfect murder. Molly knows that there’s something not entirely right with him. Something dark, something dangerous and she knows the longer she stays friends with him the greater risk she has of ending up dead at an early age.

 

And yet, at the same time, it’s for those exact reasons she stays. She _likes_ that he’s dark. She _likes_ that he’s dangerous. She _likes_ the uncertainty of not unknowing if his brown eyes twisted in murderous glee are going to be the last thing she sees.

 

He’s a morbid boy and she’s a morbid girl and they fit. Like two peas in a pod.

 

Mary can’t take it. She can’t stomach their conversations and fascination with death and murder and that’s why Molly thinks she doesn’t kick up a fuss when she and her parents suddenly and abruptly move away. Molly is sad because she likes Mary. Mary was her first and only friend. She tells Jim this one day and he pulls her close, his fingers digging into her hips and whispers in her ear, “but you’re all mine now Molly. I’ll never leave you.”

 

(She ignores the part of her that tells her this is a threat more than a promise of unconditional friendship.)

 

(She ignores a lot when it comes to Jim.)

* * *

The thing about Jim that scares Molly the most is his acting skills. She knows what he’s really like. She knows the glint in his eyes and the way his body tenses and then relaxes when he’s thinking of something entirely not good. She knows that sometimes he can be pure evil (he led a cat to a trap once and then laughed when it died shrieking. Molly tried to run and help it. She tried to run _away_ but Jim’s hand clamped tightly around her wrist kept her in place.)

 

No one else sees it though. (Mary did but Mary’s gone now and Molly is alone with Jim.) Everyone thinks that Jim is _wonderful_. That he’s _funny_. And _smart_. _Oh, you’re a bright one, aren’t we, Mr. Moriarty?_ Or his personal favorite, _I’m sure we’ll all turn on the telly one day and there you’ll be. Our little James all famous and whatnot._  

 

He’ll smile brightly, his pearly white teeth shining and he’ll always pretend to blush. He plays the innocent one quite frequently around adults and they eat it up because they don’t bother to look deeper. They don’t bother to look past the surface. (Molly does. Molly always does. She’s always been a smart girl.)

 

Her parents are especially susceptible to his charms. Some nights, he’ll ring the doorbell and he’ll laugh and chat with her parents and she’ll put her ear on the door of her and listen to them talk and she’ll always want to scream at them to open their bloody eyes and _see_. How can they _not_ see? She doesn’t say anything (she never says anything) but she’ll always back away from the door as soon as she hears footsteps and one of her parents will escort Jim to her room and tell them to be good.

 

They both nod and Jim always promises her parents that Molly is safe with him. He’ll always protect her. (She doesn’t think he’s lying, at least not really. It’s perhaps the only truth he’s ever spoken.)

 

Then Jim shuts the door and he starts talking. Sometimes, Molly actually listens. Most of the time, she doesn’t. Instead, she just watches him pace and mutter underneath his breath and she knows in those moments, he doesn’t need her to speak. Doesn’t even want her to speak, he just needs someone to talk at and she’s the only one who _knows_ him, who _understands_ him. (It doesn’t escape her notice that two decades later, she’s doing the exact same thing except with a completely different person.)

 

And sometimes, he doesn’t say anything. Sometimes, he’ll shut her door and he’ll lay her down on the bed and crawl atop of her. He pins her down with his body; his head nestled in the valley of her budding breasts and hands pushing up her shirt so that his fingers grip her bare skin.

 

(During these nights, he’ll whisper things to her, things like, _you’re mine, Molly. No one can have you. No one else will know how you feel like. How you taste like. You’re mine, Molly. You always have been, always will be_. She makes the mistake once, of asking him what will happen when she wants someone else to touch her. His eyes burn with fury, “I’ll find him and _burn the heart out of him_ Molly and then I’ll kill you for betraying me,” he hisses at her.)

 

Other nights, he doesn’t even bother with the door. Instead, he just climbs up the side of her house and comes in through her window that she always leaves unlocked just for him.

 

He does this one night when she’s thirteen and he’s fifteen and this- _this_ -is the night when everything changes. _This_ is the night he stops being James or Jim (he’ll never stop being Jim to her) and starts being _Moriarty_.

 

He climbs in through her window and Molly can tell there’s something different about him. There’s an energy around him that is bustling. He’s practically bursting at the seams and there’s an almost manic grin on his face. He’s fidgeting, fingers tapping an imaginary concerto against his jeans.

 

“Are you okay, Jim?” She asks hesitantly.

 

He turns his eyes to her and she takes a step back. He’s _completely_ unhinged. She doesn’t recognize the Jim she once knew and a queasy feeling settles deep within her stomach. “I did something, Molly. I did something and it worked and it feels glorious.”

 

“What did you do?” _Oh. God_. She _knows_ what he did without him even saying it.

 

He looks around the room, as if making sure that no one is around. That no one but Molly will bear witness to his confession. “I killed someone.”

 

“Jim.” She breathes.

 

He grips his arms and pulls her towards him. “I killed him, Molly. I killed him because I could. Do you know what this means? Do you have _any idea what this means_?”

 

“What…what does it mean?” She stutters, half from the pain he’s inflicting and half from fear.

 

“It means I can kill and get away with it. I’m going to build an empire. I’m going to be known the world over. My name will be whispered in fear, Molly, _I_ will be feared and I will be a sight to behold. I’ll be king and you, _you_ will be right there with me.” He looks at her then with wide eyes. He looks like a kid at that moment, instead of the psychopath killer that he’s on the path to becoming. Her heart aches because this is the _Jim_ that he sometimes lets her see. This is the _Jim_ who holds her and makes her laugh and protects her from bullies. “Won’t you, Molly?”

 

And because Molly has never anything else, she agrees. “Of course. Jim, God, of course. I’ll be right there with you.” _Because if I’m not, you’ll die and I don’t want you to die. Oh God, Jim what are you doing? What are you becoming?_

 

He moves his hands from her arms and cradles her face, almost gently. “It’s a deal then.”

 

Before she can say anything, he slams his lips against hers and practically shoves his tongue down her throat. She lets out a small squeal and she can feel him smirk into the kiss.

 

He’s her first kiss. In the end, it only makes sense that he’s her first everything.

 

(But he’s not her first kill and she doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive her for that.)

* * *

“What was his name?” She asks him quietly.

 

He’s silent and Molly doesn’t even have to look at him to know that he’s smiling blissfully. “Carl Powers.”

 

_Carl Powers,_ she thinks idly, _may you rest in eternal peace. You’re the first of many._

* * *

For three years, he teases her. He leaves her breathless from his kisses. They start off gentle, so unlike their first kiss and then as the years pass by and she becomes older, his kisses become more advanced. More demanding.

 

(He always kisses her when her parents are either dead asleep or out, never when they’re home.)

 

She’s fifteen when she becomes so lost in his kisses, she doesn’t even realize where his fingers are until she feels them against her core. He swirls his index finger against her and she wrenches her lips from his and she gasps and arches her back. She doesn’t know why, just that she needs more of him.

 

“Jim. God, Jim.” She whimpers and her eyes seek out his.

 

His pupils are dilated and he lets out a grunt when he slips a finger inside of her. She cries out when he slips his middle finger in and she can feel her juices coat his fingers. Molly isn’t stupid, nor is she naïve. She knows what’s happening. She’s had the talk more than once from her mother and from the school nurse. She’s overheard the girls in the changing room talk about it and she’s read her fair share of romance novels but _nothing_ could have prepared her for the feeling of his fingers inside of her.

 

He pumps his fingers inside of her and Molly finds she’s thrusting her hips to match him. She’s making strangled noises and can’t bear to close her eyes because Jim hasn’t taken his eyes off of her. He doesn’t even take his eyes off her when his head bends down and sucks at her right nipple through her thin nightshirt. (She never wears a bra to bed but she suddenly wishes she were wearing anything but an oversized white shirt.) There’s a wet spot where his mouth was and he blows on it and curls his fingers inside of her and suddenly, Molly’s world explodes.

 

She sobs in unknown pleasure and she can feel his breath, hot and panting against her breast.

 

He pulls his fingers out of her and her legs hang loosely around him, cradling him in between her legs and as he presses up against her, she can feel the bulge in his jeans and Molly’s eyes widen. He sees her and nods. “ _You_ do this to me, Molly. You _always_ do this to me.” He takes his fingers, still coated in her juices and sucks on his middle finger. “You taste delicious, Molly. So fucking delicious. I can’t wait to eat you up.” He pushes his index finger towards her mouth. “Taste, Molly.”

 

She takes his index finger in her mouth, her body still humming from her first orgasm, and wraps her tongue around it.

 

Jim closes his eyes, lets out a groan and ruts against her.

 

(She is fifteen when she realizes that she can bring Jim to his knees.)

* * *

She doesn’t tell a soul what Jim did to her but she feels like people know anyways.

 

Girls are starting to give her dirty looks and boys are actually starting to talk to her.

 

(Not that she cares because all she can think about is Jim. He consumes her every thought and more than once, she’s let her hands trail down her body and try to imitate the way he made her feel. She fails.)

 

There’s a particular boy named Jack who won’t leave her alone. He’s good-looking and Molly would be blushing from his attentions if she weren’t so bloody terrified for _his_ life if Jim were to ever find out (and Jim always finds everything out.)

 

He walks her home from school one day and kisses her gently on the lips when she reaches her door. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even respond. Mostly from shock.

 

And then he smiles, tells her that he’ll see her tomorrow at school and walks away.

 

(Molly isn’t surprised when Jack doesn’t show up for school the next day and most certainly isn’t surprised when his body turns up a day after that. It’s a cold case. They’ll never find the killer and Molly will never tell.)

* * *

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

 

“He kissed you. You let him kiss you.”

 

“I didn’t know he was going to kiss me. You need to stop…Jim…please…just stop.”

 

“Never. Molly, I can’t. I love it too much. You should try it. You’d be so good at Molly. We’d be so good at it, together.”

 

“No. I will _never_ be like you. I love you but I will never be like you.”

 

(No, instead, Molly turns out to be something worse.)

* * *

It’s exactly one month after her sixteenth birthday and six months after Jack’s body was found. Their town is still reeling with the news. His family moved away, the grief overwhelming them. Jim rolls his eyes, “what a bunch of fucking sentimental morons. Everyone dies, get over it.”

 

It’s night and the sky is black, clouds hiding the moon and stars. Her parents are gone to a party and won’t be back until much later. She’s in her plain white nightshirt with no bra. It’s well worn, the material thinning with time and Molly shivers when she remembers the way Jim’s mouth suckled on her nipple, that night nearly a year ago. She can feel her nipples tighten and she sees the way Jim’s eyes zero in on them. “What about when I die?” She asks him.

 

He doesn’t say anything. He’s standing at the foot of her bed and watching her with catlike eyes.

 

“Jim? What about when I die? Will you think it sentimental drivel then?”

 

“You should know by now, we’re Gods among people, Molly. We’re immortal. We’re _never_ going to fucking die.” He answers her. His voice is deep and filled with an emotion that she can’t quite place. He moves around and closes her curtains, shielding them from prying eyes. “Take off your shirt.”

 

“What?” She asks, not quite sure she heard him properly.

 

“Molly, take off that fucking shirt. Right now.” He takes a seat next to her and watches as she reaches down to the hem of her shirt, with trembling hands and pulls it over her head. She hangs onto it for a few seconds before she drops it on the floor. She’s wearing a pair of cotton black panties and Molly shivers as Jim’s hand rest against her stomach and then starts to draw little shapes.

 

The muscles underneath his fingers clench.

 

He runs his hands up her stomach and she watches intently as his index fingers and thumbs on both hands tease her nipples. He maneuvers himself so that he’s kneeling in between her legs. “I’m going to fuck you tonight, Molly.”

 

Her breath hitches and her body arches. “Okay.”

* * *

After what feels like hours of foreplay, he finally enters her. It hurts. _Oh God it hurts so much._ Jim doesn’t give her time to adjust; he’s lost himself in her and he thrusts his hips into her like she’s his salvation.

 

She gets used to the pain and it turns into pleasure, which then turn into moans and then grunts and then finally, she shrieks and sobs with heightened senses.

 

He follows her a few thrusts later. Sweat lining their skin; he lays his head in the valley between her breasts. He composes himself and pulls out of her.

 

She’s bleeding, she knows she is, but Molly can’t bring herself to care. She smiles sleepily at him and accepts his kisses that are much more gentle than they’ve ever been.

 

She falls asleep like this, him lying atop of her, kissing her into oblivion when she hears him say, “I’d go mad if you ever left me Molly. I think I’d die.”

 

(Molly is sure that was a dream. She never asks and he never brings it up.)

* * *

Jim is gone the next day. Not just from her bed but from her life.

 

She feels used.

 

But most of all she just feels pissed.

* * *

She’s going to Uni and all her things are packed. Her mother has cried herself to sleep and her father is watching telly downstairs when she hears the telltale noise of her window opening (she’s never gotten into the habit of locking it.) She turns around he’s there in all his glory.

 

He looks exactly the same, just two years older. “Hello, love.”

 

She crosses her arms over her chest. “What are you doing here?”

 

“What? No kiss _hello_?” He pouts.

 

“I don’t want to see you.”

 

He sits on her stripped down bed. “Don’t you want to know what I’ve been up to?”

 

“No.” _Yes._

 

He smirks and she knows that he caught her in a lie. “I’m building the empire I told you about. It’s going to be grand, Molly.”

 

“Good for you, Jim. I’m glad.” She’s also pissed that he took her virginity and then left without so much as a goodbye and hasn’t bothered to contact her since.

 

“Do you hate me then, Molly? For taking away your precious innocence and leaving you?”

 

“Yes.” _No_ , she could never hate him.

 

He smirks and she knows that he caught her in a lie.

* * *

He takes her against the wall. Hand pressed against her mouth to keep her from screaming. He doesn’t bother to take off her nightshirt (it’s blue now) or even take off her panties. He just bunches her shirt up to her waist and pulls aside her panties and thrusts relentlessly into her.

 

She’s better prepared this time around and she squeezes her thighs and pumps her hips furiously. God. She’s missed this. She’s missed _him_.

 

He drops his head to her neck and bites her hard enough to break the skin and make her bleed when they both orgasm at the same time.

 

(She wears a scarf the next day and ignores the look her parents give her when they ask _isn’t it too hot for a scarf, darling?_ She can almost hear Jim’s cackling laughter inside the darkest part of her mind.)

* * *

She’s in the library during her second month of Uni when she sees a vaguely familiar blonde. The blonde girl stops, stares and cocks her head to the side. Then her eyes widen and she lets out a smile and laugh. “Molly? Molly Hooper? Is that really you?”

 

Molly narrows her eyes and then it all clicks. “Mary Morstan?” It’s been years since Molly last saw Mary.

 

Mary nods eagerly and practically trips over herself. “I’ve missed you. How are you? How are your parents? What are you studying?”

 

She answers the bombardment of questions and asks her own.

 

Schoolwork lays abandoned as the two girls catch up on years they missed.

 

“I’m surprised to see you on your own.” Mary comments.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Mary smiles wanly. “I mean, your shadow is missing. I’m talking about James. The psycho. I’m glad to see that you’ve finally shaken the devil off your shoulder.”

 

Molly just smiles and shrugs.

 

(She didn’t shake the devil off, if anything, she let him bury himself in her and make a home.)

* * *

Her chemistry lab partner is a guy named Sherlock Holmes. Molly has never seen him because he never bothers to show up. Which is fine for Molly, because she knows what she’s doing and doesn’t mind doing the work on her own.

 

Then one day, as she walks into class, she sees a tall male sitting on the stool next to hers. He has black wild curls and shockingly blue eyes. His cheekbones are sharp and his jaw is defined and he’s bloody _gorgeous_. Her heart starts to race and her pulse quickens.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, then?” She asks, clearing her throat. “I’m Molly Hooper. Your lab partner.”

 

He looks at her, his bright blue eyes taking every inch of her. “I don’t care.” He drawls. His voice sends a shiver through her. It’s deep and baritone and she wonders what it sounds like in the throes of passion.

 

(Meeting Sherlock Holmes is both the best and worst thing that has ever happened to her.)

* * *

The first time she sees Sherlock deduce something (someone) it’s at the expense of their Chemistry professor. Sherlock keeps correcting her and she keeps getting angry until she snaps at him. It’s an instantaneous reaction on his part. His blue eyes harden, his muscles tense and she can see his jaw relaxing.

 

Then he opens his mouth and tears her apart. He says it all in one breath, nonstop and everyone in the class is staring at their professor in mortification and embarrassment.

 

Molly is staring at Sherlock.

 

The professor leaves the room in tears (and later resigns from her position.)

 

He looks oddly pleased with himself and then he looks at her, head cocked to the side. All around them, students are whispering, some of them talking loudly.

 

“Sherlock…” she starts and then trails off, unaware of what she even wants to say. “That was…”

 

“Brilliant? Of course it was. _I_ am brilliant.”

 

_He sounds so much like Jim. Arrogant and cocky._ “Well, yes. No. I mean…yes, I will admit that was brilliant but you can’t just…that was a bit not good.”

 

“ _A bit not good?_ ”

 

“Socially unacceptable to humiliate someone like that.”

 

He stares at her unflinchingly. “I am not in the business of being socially acceptable. That’s why you’re attracted to me.”

 

(Yes, she really _really_ is. This can lead to no good.)

* * *

She’s at a party that Mary has dragged her to when she sees Sherlock. Except, he’s not the Sherlock she knows. Instead, his pupils are way past dilated and his skin is a sickly sort of pale. His cheeks are flushed and he’s hyperactive, almost as if he has a secret no one else knows. (He reminds her so much for Jim this way, it physically hurts her.)

 

It’s then that it occurs to her, he’s _high_.

 

She takes him back to her flat and waits for the drugs to flush out of his system.

 

(He’s awful to her. Dissecting her every move, ripping apart her small flat and her attraction to him. But he doesn’t mention, Jim. He doesn’t ever mention Jim and she wonders if Jim is that good, to completely erase any evidence that he was ever in her life to begin with.)

 

“Why are you still here?” He groans. They’re in her bathroom, his head nestled on her legs and she’s running her hands through his sweat-matted hair.

 

“Well…you are in my flat.” That’s not what he means and she knows it’s not what he means.

 

“No. Why are you still here with _me_? Others would have left by now. Leaving me alone to die.”

 

“You’re not going to die, I won’t let you.” She says firmly. “And I won’t ever leave you.” (She can almost hear Jim in her mind, _we’re Gods among people, Molly. We’re immortal. We’re never going to fucking die._ )

 

It’s quite the burden for her to bear but she doesn’t mind.

 

Jim is going to be furious when he finds out.

 

And Molly Hooper finds that she doesn’t give a shit.

* * *

Sherlock is gone the next morning.

 

She doesn’t see him in class and she’s worried.

 

Until a sleek black car pulls up next to her and a man with a pointed face tells her to get in. She refuses and keeps on walking but then the man tells her that he’s Mycroft Holmes. She gets in the car with no hesitation.

 

“Where’s Sherlock?” Molly asks in a quiet demand.

 

“Rehab.” Mycroft replies. He looks her up and down and then shakes his head. He takes out a small book and writes in it, ripping out a piece of it and handing it to her.

 

She takes one look at the cheque, her eyes bulging at the sum and then hands it back to him.

 

“Think of it as compensation for taking care of my brother in the years to come. There’s more where that came from.”

 

“I don’t care about money.” Molly informs. “You can’t just…this is…I’m not a _whore_.” She’s not. She refuses to become one.

 

“No.” Mycroft concedes. “You want to be a Pathologist and medical school _is_ expensive, Miss Hooper.”

 

“Then pay for my schooling.” She snaps and then she shakes her head. “No. Don’t. That’s not…I’m not...leave me alone. I’ll take care of Sherlock…but don’t ever insult me like this again.”

 

She leaves the car and the cheque behind and steps out into the frigid air. She’s fuming with unrestrained anger and humiliation. And maybe even a little regret. That money _would_ allow her to live comfortably and she won’t ever have to worry about loans…No. _No. This is the right thing to do._

 

(And Molly has _always_ done the right thing. Except for when she hasn’t.)

* * *

“You didn’t take the money.” Sherlock’s voice is deep and he sounds tired through the phone.

 

“No. No, I didn’t.”

 

“Why ever not?”

 

It’s something she’s thought about for a while, something that her mind keeps going back to and then suddenly, she gets it. She understands why she didn’t take the money. It’s not because of pride or doing the right thing, it’s just about Sherlock. “Because,” she says slowly, “if you were me and I were you, you would do the exact same thing.”

 

He doesn’t say anything to that and Molly knows she hit the nail right on the head.

 

(Which is why years later, when all her schooling has been anonymously paid for, Molly doesn’t argue. She does however run her fingertips across the back of Sherlock’s hand and gives him a small smile. A small _thank you_. He returns it hesitantly and allows her fingers to burn a path on his skin.)

* * *

The day before Sherlock is scheduled to get out of rehab, Jim comes to visit again.

 

He takes one look at her and the small soft smile that once adorned his face twists into something dark and unrecognizable. “By God, you’ve went and fallen in love.” He laughs loudly and it’s a cackle and it shakes her to her very core. “Who is he? Who. The. Fuck. Is. He?”

 

“No one.” She tells him.

 

“ _WHO IS HE_?” He roars. He jumps forward and grasps both her arms and slams her against the wall. “You _slut_. Do you open your legs for him? Do you moan for him? You know what I’m capable of, Molly. I’ll kill him. I’ll find him and fucking _burn his heart out._ I promised you I would.”

 

There is a fury that burns a path throughout her entire body and she pushes Jim off her. He stumbles backwards, clearly surprised. “You lay one hand on him and _I’ll kill you_.” She tells him, her voice deadly and surprisingly calm.

 

Jim looks at her, tilts his head up the ceiling and lets out a shrill laugh. “My little mouse bites back. Oh, he must be special then.”

 

“I mean it, Jim. Leave him alone and get the hell out of my life.”

 

“I’ll never leave you, Molly. I’m in your body. I’m in your blood. I’m the poison pumping through your veins. I’ve seared you. Branded you. You’re _mine_.”

 

“I was.” She says quietly. “Now…now, I’m just me.”

 

Jim leaves but tells her that he’ll be back. Molly doesn’t doubt him.

* * *

She doesn’t pick Sherlock up from rehab. He comes back on a Sunday and Molly is studying for Biology when there’s a knock on her flat door. She gets up and answers it and her mouth gapes open when she sees Sherlock Holmes standing in front of her door, his black bag sitting limply at his feet.

 

She opens the door wider and shuts and locks it when he’s in.

 

She’s in the middle of showing him around her flat, telling him where everything is when he pushes her into her bedroom. She’s still confused as to what’s happening and why he’s here but she doesn’t question it. She doesn’t question it when he pushes her dressing gown off her shoulders, or when he pulls her shirt over her head, or when he unclasps her bra, or when he pulls down her gray sweatpants and panties. She doesn’t question it when he places kisses all over her body.

 

Her heart is beating like mad and her body is aching and arching and she drags him to the bed. She struggles to get his clothes off of him and grabs at the bedside drawer. She clings to a condom in her hand and rips it open and rolls it on him with trembling hands.

 

She wants to ask if he’s sure. If he’s ready but she doesn’t want to break the spell. He keeps his eyes locked onto hers as he enters into her slowly, inch by inch. It’s nothing she’s ever felt before and she wonders how Jim would feel when he finds out that Sherlock Holmes is a better lover than he is. _Pissed_. He’d be pissed and he’d kill her without a second thought.

 

He kisses her when he bottoms out in her and swallows her cries. Her hands curl into his hair and she tugs at his scalp. “Sherlock,” she pants against his lips, “move. Please, just move.”

 

His hips pump erratically against hers and she’s making mewling noises and she’s sure that her neighbors can hear but Molly doesn’t care because Sherlock is _here_. With her. _In_ her and he feels fucking _glorious_.

 

He’s grunting and holding her face between his hands. His lips brush against hers. “Say it again, Molly. Say it again.” His eyes are wild and his face is contorted in a mix of pain and pure pleasure.

 

Molly can feel her orgasm building and she reaches down between their bodies and touches herself. Sherlock chokes out a groan and Molly racks her brain until she knows exactly what he wants her to say. “I won’t…” she trails off with a moan, her body tightening, “I won’t ever leave you. Sherlock. _Sherlock_.”

 

She explodes with a choked scream and swallowed sob and he follows with an exhaled grunt and a spasm of his hips. He bows his head down to her collarbone and places feather light kisses on it, almost reverently.

 

(They don’t ever talk about it again but Molly knows it meant something to him because she knows he hasn’t deleted it and he hasn’t deleted her, so that has to mean something, right?)

 

_Right._

* * *

She hasn’t seen Jim in a long time. She’s almost forgotten about him (that’s a lie, she’ll never forget about him) when suddenly he shows up the day she gets her acceptance into medical school.

 

He’s sitting on her bed in her darkened room and she gasps, placing a hand over her racing heart when she turns on the light and sees him there. He’s wearing a crisp suit worth more than her flat. He thrums his fingers against his trousers and turns his head to look at her. “Sherlock Holmes.” He says.

 

Molly’s heart plunges to her stomach. “Jim-”

 

“I am giving you _one_ chance, Molly. _One_. Leave. Him. Get _away_ from him.”

 

“No.” It should scare how she doesn’t even bother to hesitate with her answer but it doesn’t.

 

“This is it, then? You’ve chosen _him_ over _me_?”

 

_Why can’t he understand that it’s not about choosing?_ Jim has always dominated her. He’s always commanded her and she’s tired of it. “You left me, remember?”

 

He steps forward and cradles her face in his hands. He looks like the Jim she used to know. “I met someone.” He tells her in a hushed whisper. “We’re building the empire, a network that spans across the fucking world and Sherlock fucking Holmes won’t ever be able to stop us. And you… _you_ my little Molly, will be alone in the heartbroken bloodied aftermath. Sherlock Holmes is going to break you far worse than I ever did and when he does, I want you to remember me.”

 

(As if she could ever forget him.)

* * *

She wants to prove Jim wrong. She wants to show him that Sherlock isn’t like him. That Sherlock is different. He won’t hurt her.

 

Turns out, Molly is wrong and Jim is right.

 

(Jim is always right and she hates him for it.)

* * *

The years pass by and Sherlock diminishes her. He takes her apart mentally and emotionally and some days, some days she wants to lash out at him and tell him that he’s worse than the man he hasn’t met yet.

 

She _should_ tell him about Jim. She _should_ tell him that Jim’s got a plan and it’s got him right in the center of it and she wants to apologize because she fears that she’s the reason why Jim has this fixation- _obsession_ -with Sherlock Holmes.

 

But she doesn’t. Years pass and she doesn’t say a damn thing. She takes Jim’s secret with her everywhere she goes.

 

( _Jim made you_ , the darkest part of her mind whispers to her, _he’s your Frankenstein and you’re his wretch. A creation born in blood and lost innocence_.)

 

She _sometimes_ hates Sherlock Holmes.

 

She _always_ hates Jim Moriarty.

* * *

The day John Watson comes strolling into their lives is a day that Molly will never forget.

 

She gets a text message that night and reaches blindly for her phone. It’s late at night and Molly blinks against the harsh light of her phone. It’s from a blocked number.

 

_Let the games begin. I’m back Molly. JM_

 

She suddenly feels sick.

* * *

When she sees Jim (now Jim from I.T.) coming towards, she stops and stares. He grabs her by the waist and pulls her into the closest janitorial closet.

 

“Hello, Molly-love.” He says to her. “Long time no see. You haven’t changed a bit. You do look tired though. Sherlock keeping you up at night? Oh wait, he doesn’t give a _shit_ about you.”

 

“What are you doing here?” She hisses at him.

 

“Fulfilling a promise.” He grins at her and then presses his lips harshly to hers. He bites her lip hard enough to break the skin and all she can taste is blood. “I’ve missed playing with you, Molly. Sebby isn’t nearly as fun. Be around soon. Oh and Molly, I know you won’t but don’t tell anyone about me. If you do, you die. Also, sorry to hear about your dad. He was always such a nice man.”

 

He leaves her in the janitorial closet with tears streaming down her face.

 

She takes in a shaky breath and goes back down to the lab.

 

John looks at her worriedly and asks her if she’s okay. Sherlock doesn’t bother looking at her.

 

“Molly.” John says, “You’re bleeding.”

 

_Now_ Sherlock looks at her and he takes in her appearance and she wonders what he’s thinking about. What he’s deducing. His eyes widen and then harden. His fists clench and he turns around, back tense and facing her.

 

“Am I?” She asks, her voice sounding detached and far away. “I hadn’t really noticed.”

 

(If she weren’t looking, she wouldn’t have seen it, but she _is_ looking and she _does_ see the way Sherlock flinches and for one vicious moment she thinks _good for you, now you have an inkling as to how you make me feel, every single fucking day_.)

 

Then she’s reminded that she sounds like Jim and the sick feeling returns in her stomach.

* * *

Gay.

 

_Gay._

 

Molly argues and she snaps and then she turns away. She’s not angry, at least not really. In fact, if anything, it makes a lot of sense.

 

She tells Jim that she can’t do it anymore. For him to _please, please just leave me alone. If you love me at all, if you’ve ever loved or cared for me at all, you’ll leave me alone. I’ve had enough. You were right. I’m broken, just don’t…not anymore._

 

He kisses her forehead and tells her that he’s going to burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes if it’s the last thing he does.

* * *

She goes through the entire process with the police after they find out she dated Jim from I.T. for a bit.

 

She doesn’t say anything else. She lets them do the talking.

 

They tell her she’s the victim in all this.

 

She doesn’t bother to tell them that she’s the catalyst for all this.

* * *

Christmas that year is…Christmas that year is horrible.

 

And it almost makes her wish that she were with Jim than in the morgue with Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes and watching as Sherlock identifies a dead dominatrix by not-her-face.

 

When Sherlock leaves, she almost calls out to him, she wants to ask him that if (when) she turns up dead with her face caved in, _will you still be able to identify her by not-her-face or have you deleted that night from all those years ago?_

 

Instead, she doesn’t say anything but she just looks at Mycroft who is staring at her as if saying, _you should have left when you had the chance, you stupid little girl._

 

Molly doesn’t disagree.

* * *

She’s tired of not counting. So, she tells him as such. Tells him that she can see him so why on _earth_ can he not see her?

 

(In the end, he’s always seen her. She’s just been the blind one.)

* * *

She once told him that she wouldn’t let him die.

 

She breaks her promise.

 

But only because Sherlock _and_ Jim make her. (Sometimes, in the darkest part of her mind, she thinks that they're one in the same.)

* * *

She finds out Jim is dead.

 

Sherlock tells her that he shot himself.

 

She can barely believe it.

 

Which is why, when she knows that Sherlock is sleeping, she creeps into her bathroom, turns on the shower, covers her mouth with her hands and sobs.

 

Jim is dead and she’s so righteously pissed off that she wasn’t the one to kill him.

 

(She cries harder because she is an awful person.)

* * *

Sherlock heals and tells her that he’s going off to disentangle Moriarty’s network. The one he worked so hard to build. The one that is recognized the world over and is whispered in fear.

 

She nods, tells him to be careful and to come back. And because he’s leaving and she doesn’t know if she’s ever going to see him again, she stands on her tiptoes and kisses him gently on the lips (they could never get their timing right.)

 

He pulls her flush against him lowers them to the floor. They don’t bother to make their way to the bedroom or to the couch, no, he takes her on the floor. He makes her scream and beg and plead. He leaves bruises and marks and it’s not at all gentle like the first time. No, this is the act of a desperate man and she will give him everything she has and more because she _loves_ him.

 

_I’m sorry Jim_ , she weeps silently, _I’m so sorry._

* * *

She doesn’t see Sherlock often. Maybe once every three months, but every time he comes back to her, he relearns her body.

 

She doesn’t ask about his new scars.

* * *

It’s at the end of his second year, into his third year of exile when it happens.

 

She’s alone on New Year’s Eve and she walks into a darkened flat.

 

She feels something hit her temple. She sees stars explode across her vision and she lets out a yelp. Her attacker claws at her throat, intent on choking her. _Killing_ her.

 

She tries to fight. She tries to claw the floorboards for purchase, but she finds none.

 

Instead, she feels the splatter of something hot and metallic against her face and the man above her goes limp and falls atop of her. She stays underneath him for a second and then scrambles to push him off.

 

The lights flickers on and Molly lets out a sob. “Oh God. _Oh God_. I knew it. Fuck. Oh shit. _Jim_.”

 

He twists a smile at her. His gloved hands holding a smoking gun. “I told him not to touch you. _I told him_.” It almost sounds like regret in his voice.

 

She looks at the dead unknown man and then looks back at Jim. “Sebastian Moran? _You_ killed Sebastian Moran in _my_ flat? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

 

He kneels down in front of her and places the gun in her hand. “No. _You_ killed Sebastian Moran in _your_ flat. I’m dead, remember?”

 

“Why?” She croaks.

 

“Because I promised to protect you. And because _no one_ will kill you other than me. Tell Sherlock _hello_ from me, will you? Until next time, my little Molly.”

 

She takes a couple of deep breaths and waits until Jim disappears before she calls Greg Lestrade and tells him that she just shot and killed Sebastian Moran.

* * *

Sherlock is there when Scotland Yard shows up. So is Mycroft and so is John.

 

John punches Sherlock.

 

Greg kneels down to her level and tells her that _everything will be all right_. _Everything will be okay_.

 

She’s not looking at him. She’s looking at Sherlock who is looking at her back.

 

(She wonders how long he’s known about her connection to Jim.)

* * *

She’s released from the hospital and Sherlock takes her back to 221b Baker Street. John leaves them alone, telling Sherlock that they’re going to talk in the morning but that he has to comfort Mary (his fiancée) and tell her that _her best friend was almost murdered but not to worry because she shot and killed the man_.

 

He drags her to his room and she studies the periodic table as he strips off her clothes and kisses and sucks at every surface of her body.

 

They’re rougher this time. More animalistic and Molly relishes in the pain and pleasure.

 

She’s above him, moving her hips up and down when he stills her and she protests. “Say it Molly. Say it again.”

 

“I won’t ever leave you.” She says automatically. He lets go of her hips and twists them so that she’s underneath him. His hips thrust faster and harder. “I won’t ever let you die again.” She bites her lip and cries out against her sudden release. “I love you. I love you. Oh, _God_. Sherlock _. I love you_.”

 

“Again.” He growls, kissing the ring of black and blue bruises around her neck.

 

“I love you.”

 

She repeats it even after he slumps against her, head resting in the valley between her breasts.

 

(She tries not to think of Jim then. She mostly succeeds.)

* * *

“How long have you known him?” He asks her. He’s smoking a cigarette in bed and Molly wants to comment about how cliché that is, but she doesn’t. Her head is pillowed against his chest and she can hear his erratic heartbeat. “Moriarty, how long have you known him?”

 

“How long have you known that I’ve known him?”

 

“The Pool. He told me that he’d burn the heart out of me and then he whispered _Molly Hooper has always been mine, nothing you can do will change that_.” He takes a drag and stubs out his cigarette. “How long have you known him, Molly?”

 

“All my life.” She answers.

 

He nods and absently runs a hand through her hair and down her arms.

 

“Sherlock?” She says. “Jim…he’s not dead.”

 

“I know.”

 

“He’s going to come back.”

 

“We’ll be ready.”

 

He says _we_ and she _almost_ believes that they’ll win.

* * *

He spends the rest of the night kissing her and making her scream in pure ecstasy.

 

He tries to make her not think of Jim.

 

(He mostly succeeds.)

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t mean to torture poor Molly. I love Molly. I admire Molly. I want to be Molly because I think she’s essentially a really awesome and genuinely nice person, but God, I’ve been putting her through the ringer. I’m sorry Molly! 
> 
> Annnd…oh sweet Jesus. I think I’m twisted. I don’t know. I probably am. It’s kind of crazy how this came about. I just…I think it’s the darkest thing I’ve written so far and by far probably the most twisted. So…hopefully, you all liked it. I know it’s a bit different and a helluva lot darker than usual but yeah…should I start apologizing now? Because some part of me wants to apologize. And then cry. 
> 
> On the bright side: I. LOVE. YOU. ALL. Like serious MAD LOVE.


End file.
